Blisters
Blisters are the worst temporary memento any experience can leave you. After the goodbyes, or the lack of it, you are sore from the inside, touchy and sensitive. You are hurting, but there is not much to crow about because it is not really a wound.
You can pop it out - your emotion, your blister - and much like tears, that hot and watery deposit starts running down your skin. The welt reduces into an empty pouch, much like how the heart feels after it realizes it beats alone again. You can also choose to ignore it and just wait for it to cake. It will take a few days to a few weeks before everything comes off - dead skin, dead emotions, whichever you want to get rid of.
It leaves you with the faintest, almost cowardly scar, which is what I despise the most. It is so faint you can hardly wear it as a badge of courage, strength, willpower, and accomplishment. You can’t even say, "Here’s a proof of how stupid I can get."
Sure, I have photos - reminders of the two karting sessions which also left me with inflamed back muscles so close to my spine my friends feared I’d be racing wheelchairs instead of cars in no time; snapshots from the two and a half-hour trek to Mount Pinatubo; and a red-eyed photo of an inebriated me and the jerk, just as drunk or probably feigning it, who left at the scariest point in my life.
I had blisters and memories. Perhaps I should be thankful that’s all I got. But silly me, I’m thinking maybe wounds are better. Wounds that rip through defenses, deep and beyond comfort. Wounds that draw and drain blood. Perhaps they would leave the best scars - proud and painful reminders of the past.
April 3rd, 2006 at 9:09 am
At the end of the day, one does not need to have blisters or wounds to be reminded of this or that, of him or her. The soul never forgets.